Lost Hearts
by Von Leos
Summary: Four prisoners try to regain their lives. Two sisters seek their past, one looks for a future, the other for their present. The world collides and falls around them. Somewhere in the center, a god is awakening. All OCs all the time
1. Prologue

**Author's Note: **This story is for a few of my characters for a roleplaying forum. The setting and characters belong to Bethesda and Zenimax unless otherwise stated, and I'm not making any profit off it. For this one, Vas'riel belongs to me, as does her companion. Quinn belongs to ScentofBlood.

* * *

**3****E**** 428, 28****th ****of ****Second ****Seed**

The night had conquered Vvardenfell, a land of far wastes covered by thick red sands. All that remained to be seen were torchlights under the stars, clustered close in the valleys at the lowest bases of the Red Mountain, home of terrible gods and death-filled blights.

The lights especially clustered around the chitin homes; shells of massive, long-dead creatures. Their exteriors had been white once, before aging to a dusty yellow and being covered in thick red gouts of sand and ash. Now they appeared to just be mud, mud in the shape of bowls and spheres, lit by the occasional torch on the outside, with small archways covered in thick cloths that shined from light attempting to escape from inside.

Inside the earthy hovels were cloths and small wooden constructs, all strewn across packed earth that made up the floors. Despite the alien terrain outside, inhospitable deserts and unnatural, bloodthirsty creatures, the inside was lively; the atmosphere light.

These were the Dunmer, a race of hardy elves with dark blue skin and prominent features. To humans they looked somewhat alien, an image that was magnified by the fact that they lived in one of the most hospitable continents in the whole of Tamriel. They had high cheekbones and jutting jaws, with thin eyes of black, red, or white, framed by pronounced and often protruding bones under their skin.

To most humans, at least, they looked unnatural. But there was one sitting on a small wooden stool in the side of one of the chitin yurts who saw a beauty in the race that her kind, and even her family, did not.

She was an Imperial, the majority race back on the mainland. They held power this far out too, their words and edicts near-law to even the hardy, independent Dunmer. By Imperial standards she was quite beautiful, and everything the Dunmer weren't. She had soft, rounded features and fine hair tied in a loose knot behind her head. Her skin was unblemished, a soft peach color that seemed to spite the sun-scorched dirt outside. Her eyes were large, their iris' a deep brown that looked over the lively atmosphere with a warmth and joy that bespoke a woman sitting with a family she loved.

These people weren't her family, she knew that all too well. In fact, before the Imperial and her companion had arrived in this tiny village in the shadow of the Red Mountain just a day before, she hadn't even known any of them.

But now they sat in a ring, just inside the walls of the yurt, passing bowls of alien, and for the most part unappetizing, food to each and every person, who would then scoop a helping on a cracked bone or old wooden plate lying before them. It didn't matter that there was an outsider in their midst, the girl may have been Imperial in appearance, but she had a light Vvardenfell accent, her jokes were local, and when a plate of clear guar jelly reached her hands, she took a handful of put it down next to her generous helping of fried cliff racer eggs.

Dinner happened whenever all the day's jobs were done and everyone was gathered. In such a small village it had to be like this, if everyone cooked their own meals and did their own chores nothing would ever get done, so the largest shell in the arid valley was put aside for everyone eat in. One of the village women led two of the men in preparing a feast every day, and then it was shared with laughter, stories, and some attempt to break the stress that attempted to fracture communities.

The Imperial girl seemed all too happy to oblige with all this, but even from the beginning it was apparent where her interests were. Her companion was a young Dunmer woman who had walked into town with her, seemingly a servant to her nobility. But her eyes had stayed on the Dunmer all night and all through the meal. The look of adoration and longing was apparent, only matched by the occasional flirty glance back from her companion.

When her plate was polished clean and set down the Imperial ducked away for a moment, returning with a lute to retake her chair. Her companion had been across from her until now, sitting on a bundle of furs on the floor like most the village-folk. It had been the perfect place where she could catch the eyes of the Imperial and share looks all evening. But seeing the instrument made her face light up visibly.

The Dunmer girl stood, while the Imperial placed the bottom of the polished mahogany instrument in her lap, testing each string with the nails from her right hand, while her left twisted them to be tighter or more loose. Her companion may have been slightly less obvious with her loving gazes before then, but the girl was so fixated on the instrument now that there she could stare openly, taking in each soft curve and displaced strand of hair as it contrasted against her light skin.

Moments later she looked up, appearing quite proud of herself. She caught an abashed looked, and smiled wide before strumming a single chord out of the lute. It sounded perfect and musical, a testament to keen ears and good craftsmanship.

There was a spin that left robes shooting out in every direction as the Dunmer took to the open floor in the center of the yurt, followed by another chord. Another quick spin and the Imperial started playing for real, notes and chords flowing from her fingers every time a fingernail hit one of the taught, gut strings. The Dunmer, a look of joy stretched across her pronounced features and crinkling her thin eyes, spun and flowed like a flower in the wind. When she wasn't moving recklessly across the open floor of the yurt, her shoulders and hips swayed with the beat or her back stretched and contorted, throwing her whole body in the dance.

Just a minute in had the spectators clapping rhythmically to the lute's solo, and soon the village youths and several of the older workers were up and filling the room brim-to-brim with cloth as robes and dresses were spun in joy. All throughout the song and dance, which lasted for hours into the night until homes and beds started to beckon, their eyes remained affixed to one another.

The world was an enjoyable experience, but no amount of fun or novelty seemed to tear their attentions apart. It only became more prominent as the night winded down and the two travelers were left alone in the gathering yurt. A bedroll had been rolled out for the visitors, and as they settled in they had turned to face each other.

Their heads seemed to hit the comforters at the same time, for their eyes hadn't moved yet, still staring into the other's. The Dunmer's iris' were red, the color of a light ruby in most lights. Now they were deep and mysterious, like a pool of a dark red wine. It wasn't the color that entranced the Imperial, there was so much more to her eyes than that. They were soft now, caring, understanding. They gave her the feeling of lying in bed in the mainland, protected from everything, before danger had ever entered her life. There was safety in that gaze that she knew was tempered by this woman's strength.

The Imperial's lips parted, and for a second a breath came out that brushed lightly against the Dunmer's hand, where they had linked palms with one another between them, and the Dunmer's own lips. The whispered breath soon took shape, forming a word that they could hardly hear, a name, "Vas'riel."

"Hmm?" Vas'riel replied, just a muttered sound of contentedness in return.

The Imperial opened her mouth, only to close it a few moments later with no sound escaping. Her brow furrowed, before her whole forehead relaxed. The emotions were apparent in her eyes more than her face, after a night of staring at Vas'riel in adoration they looked through her now, glistening in the tiny bit of starlight that reached into the dark yurt.

A thin blue finger untangled itself from her hands. Vas'riel reached across the sparse few inches to press against the girl's cheek and pull away one of the tears that had escaped.

They both already knew what troubled the girl. Her life had been a simple affair just recently, but enemies of her family had targeted her for whatever reason. Now the two fled north from the plantations at the southern end of Vvardenfell.

"Don't worry, heart of mine," Vas'riel spoke. Her voice sent chills down the girl's spine, it was always so smooth, and yet deep enough to give her a prominence that made her seem haughty at times. Even if Vas'riel didn't mind, the Imperial girl hated when people assumed she thought that way. "Even if they catch us, I will defend you. I'll protect you to my last breath and then some, and if either of us are to ever die, I'll challenge death itself to bring us back together."

Vas'riel, the girl knew, was the most selfless person she ever met. The quiet words spoken in that dark yurt put a smile on her face. After a moment, she felt her eyes growing heavy amongst the safety of the Dunmer's hand as it slowly stroked the tears away, her thumb smoothly circling the girl's cheek.

**4****E**** 62, 2****nd ****of ****Sun****'****s ****Dusk**

It seemed to be impossible to figure what Vas'riel was thinking, even after her helmet was off. The older woman had sat down in a cave, some ways away from the mountain's peak, and was staring off into distance as she slowly stroked the skull she had been carrying.

Quinn was her current traveling partner, a woman who appeared as a Nord dressed in conservative robes. It was plain to see that she wasn't a local, poking out from beneath her shorter, blood-red hair were bone-white horns, and despite her modest dress and Nord appearance she shivered against the biting cold of the Throat of the World. The woman was currently giving her companion space, her eyes speaking of her distrust for the old woman already.

There was quite a bit of surprise already, when the old Dunmer helmet had been removed she'd been expecting a Dunmer, but this woman had ash-grey skin and small horns protruding from her forehead. She was a Dremora, a Daedric servant of Mehrunes Dagon, and yet no type of Dremora that Quinn had ever seen. And the truth was, Quinn had seen plenty enough Daedra that Dremora didn't surprise her. Vas'riel had yet to speak of such matters, offering only brief advice and quips, but she worked for powerful Daedra, the most powerful pantheon of gods that existed to Dunmer. The Daedric Princes. And Vas'riel's masters were Quinn's parents, so to speak.

_"__Vas__'__riel __shall __guide __your __steps__, __my __child__,"_ Meridia had declared on the day it was decided Quinn was ready. The avatar of Nocturnal stood beside her, and around them were representations, faint images that seemed to take shape for just seconds, of another fifteen figures. Those shared Quinn's blood, the seventeen Daedric Princes, surprisingly all of whom had gathered for this moment. They were all silent as Meridia spoke once more, _"__Fear __not__, __for __this __girl __was __our __champion__. __We __have __faith __in __her __still__."_

_ "__See __the __world__,"_ Nocturnal commanded from Meridia's side, _"__Grow__, __child__, __and __return __to __us __once __more__."_

That had been the last time she had seen her 'parents', just days earlier, before arriving here in the care of this woman. While her body was adapting, her daedric blood already thickening to the frosty cold of Skyrim's mountains, she was still unsure about her situation, about who the Princes had left her with. There was just something in the sunken look to the woman, or the dead gaze she held that seemed to stare through the skull she stroked so lovingly. Something that irked Quinn.

A powerful enough woman to have been considered the Daedric Princes' champion even years before Quinn was born, when her exploits in Vvardenfell had been told as legend, yet she had been expecting something else. This woman, Dremora, whatever she wanted to be called, was a wiry figure hiding under robes and enchantments, her gaze detached from reality, her body little more than a husk, from what could be seen of it.

Quinn turned, looking out the cave entrance and across the world of Tamriel, of Skyrim, where they had come to. Part of her wanted to take in all these new sights, these novel places. Part of her just wanted to wonder what had happened to turn the 'champion' into something like this without having to look into those dead eyes.


	2. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **Formatting hates me. Setting and world still belong to Bethesda and Zenimax. Dante was made by ScentOfBlood, 'Arrick' was made by xcaliber184, the rest of the original characters belong to me.

* * *

**4E 197**

_The __light __was __blinding__, __blooming __out __from __the __edges __of __my __vision__. __It __was __a __bad __headache __mixed __in __with __too __much __beer __and __narcotics __most __likely __prohibited __throughout __the __Empire__. __The __only __problem __was __that __I __didn__'__t __know __why __my __vision __was __acting __up __like __this__. __Hell__, __I __didn__'__t __even __know __where __I __was__._

_One __second __I __was__... __doing __something__, __getting __on __with __my __regular __old __life__, __and __the __next __I __was __sitting __at __a __bar __that __I __couldn__'__t __quite __make __out__, __listening __to __two __men __I__'__d __never __seen __before __in __my __life __prattle __on __about __something__. __My __head __felt __like __it __was __weighed __down __by __blocks __of __iron__, __and __every __time __I __turned __to __look __at __one __of __them __it __tilted __threateningly __towards __the __bar __beneath __me __or __the __open __space __behind __my __stool__._

_One __of __the __men__, __I __realized __soon __enough__, __was __an __older __gentleman __with __greying __hair __and __a __boisterous__, __if __scraping__, __voice__. __He __was __dressed __fancifully__, __and __seemed __to __be __talking __about __mud__crabs __he __had __met __on __the __side __of __the __road __the __other __day__. __Gentleman__, __yeah __right__... __Who __gets __a __lady __drugged __up __and __drags __them __to __a __bar__? __No __gentleman __I __know__._

_The __other __was __far __younger __and __more __plainly __dressed__, __with __longer __and __darker __hair __that __was __slicked __back __to __the __nape __of __his __neck__. __He __was __downing __his __drink __with __a __fervor__, __only __stopping __to __offer __me __a __metal __flagon __of __something __I __doubt __I __wanted __anywhere __near __my __mouth__._

_Why __did __I __accept __it__? __Why __did __I __drink __it__? __My __limbs __were __acting __on __their __own __and __nothing __was __making __sense__. __Why __was __I __even __here__?_

_A __chill __ran __up __my __spine__. __I __felt __like __a __blade __had __just __been __pressed __against __my __back__, __but __an __unfamiliar __weight __pressed __up __into __my __personal __space __instead__. __A __woman__'__s __form __rested __against __my __shoulders __now__, __pressing __further __and __further __into __me __until __I __felt __warm __breath __against __my __ear__. __Fear __gripped __me__, __for __whatever __reason__, __and __I __tensed__, __completely __unable __to __move__. __I __wanted __to __ask __who __she __was__, __who __these __two __sitting __beside __me __were__, __where __I __was__, __why __I __was __here__. __I __wanted __to __shout __and __scream__. __I __wanted __to __shake __this __person __off __my __shoulders __and __run__._

_Instead __my __head __lulled __towards __the __warmth __of __her __breath __and __she__- __no__- __he __spoke__,__ "__Don__'__t __let __us __down__. _Ho!"

The shout was loud, stirring, and followed by another, similar, "Ho!" that was most definitely not coming from a woman pressed against her back. Before her eyes even opened she recognized it as being from somewhere off to her right, where a driver was reigning in his horses. The huge, muscular beasts didn't both stop at once, one shaking his mane out in protest to the command while the other halted willingly before drifting a few steps to the side.

She heard the beasts of labor before she could manage to open her eyes to see them. That odd dream may have been bright, but opening her eyes revealed just how much brighter natural light was, and how much more painful to her pounding head it was. Eventually she managed to get one eye open by squinting as much as she could and trying to press into her roaring headache by scrunching her forehead up.

It only occurred to the woman after she noticed that she wasn't rubbing her head with her hands that she was restrained. Excitement and fear bubbled up in her, but she fought it down to take stock of her surroundings.

The first thing she noticed was that she was on the back of a wagon, a wagon with six occupants. The man that had woken her up was sitting up front, dressed in light Imperial garb and manning the reigns of two horses, massive beasts unseen where she had come from. The things back home were scrawny and light-footed compared to these. Where she was was still a mystery, but she turned her attention to the next few people.

There was another Imperial soldier in the wagon, sitting with his back against the driver's, facing the prisoners- she guessed that was what they were- that were also in the cart. He rested against a worn Imperial sword, leaning forward on it as he watched them. The two men, and whatever escorts she could hear _clip__-__clopping _behind the cart, were watching over three prisoners, two on her right with bags over their head, and one right in front of her.

The man, or boy, in front of her looked rough and out of it, with unkempt hair and an unshaven face smeared with dirt from travels untold. His eyes were distant, and something told her that he didn't really want to admit to being here, since he didn't even notice when she woke up.

She just made one little miscalculation in her brief check of the occupants of the wagon. There weren't three prisoners, there were four. Her shoulders burned from where they had been stuck in place, and behind her back, her hands felt raw with how much chafing they had done against the thick wooden stocks that had been clamped around them.

The guard was also more observant than her fellow prisoner. While she was getting a feel for the devices ensnaring her, he broke her out of her reverie with a, "You lot are finally waking up, then?"

With how wide-eyed she had become, there was no point in trying to look like she was asleep. That fact was only compounded when the wheels of the wagon tipped over a particularly large rock in the path, bouncing the occupants with a pained gasp from her. The stocks on her arms didn't make it particularly comfortable when moving, especially when it started to pinch the nerves in her shoulders.

"M-me?" She asked after it had become well and apparent who he was talking to. The guard was a handsome enough man, a Nord, from the broad-shoulder and wide-chinned look to him. His hair was tucked under a simple leather cap, and his green eyes trapped her like a piece of meat.

"You're an elf, aren't you?" She wasn't sure why there was accusation in his tone, but it scared her. It didn't help that he seemed to have ignored her question.

"No, I-I'm not."

She waited for a response, but the soldier didn't seem to have heard her. Instead he stood, balancing in the rickety cart even as it tumbled its way down a steep hill. Seconds later he was standing next to her, raising the small, leaf-bladed sword next to her head.

Her eyes went wide, traveling up the stocky arms to the chipped weapon. There was blood on it, dried flecks or red glinting out of some of the dents in the iron. It was also very cool, very sharp, and pressed against the firm flesh of her ear.

"So, you're not an elf? I guess you don't need these ears then." That said, he lifted the blade, placing the flat of it against her head and bringing the sharp end slowly down to the backside of her ears.

Her eyes had widened significantly, and already she could feel sweat begin to drip from her head. This man was evil, why why else would it matter if her ears had a little bit of a point to them?

What followed was a few tense seconds as her mind raced for some way to get out of her without losing a piece of her head. It finally ended when he lifted the blade, ready to bring it down on the pointed ends of her head, and she ended up shouting, "Bosmer!"

The sword paused from where it had started to carve down. "What was that?" The Nord asked.

"I'm part Bosmer," the woman explained, "Just half though, or even less. I never knew my parents, and I was raised by Imperials." Her eyes closed, screwed shut, and her face took on a pained look as she attempted not to cry. The sobs broke through her words though. "Please, please, don't kill me."

Occupied only by the noise of the wagon shaking, and some sort of muffled speaking, the woman's mind was filled with thoughts of the Nord readying a strike that would carve her head in two. It took her another minute of near-silence before she relaxed and heard the sound of the blade tapping against the wooden flooring of the wagon again. "I didn't ask for your life story, elf."

_"__Mm __bdda __plk__, __mlka__?"_

Despite the tears running cold on her cheeks and the soldier sitting back at the front of the cart, the woman knew she had to calm herself. Being scared wouldn't be any help if she were dead, after all. It was obvious she was a prisoner, but for the life of her she couldn't remember what it was she had done, which left just one option. It was an option she didn't want to think about, so she focused on her surroundings again.

Outside the rocking cart the whole of Nirn seemed to stretch out before her. The car had slowed and was slowly taking a path down a hill, one that seemed mostly covered in what she recognized as snow. They didn't have snow back where she came from, it wasn't a common things in the massive forests of Valenwood. It didn't so much amaze her that there was snow, it was just surprising that there weren't any trees here. There weren't any trees all the way down the mountain, until a beautiful landscape of reds and greens stretched out over hidden hills that overtook her eyes. There were cities too, protected by huge walls that would have been impressive even back in the Imperial lands of Cyrodiil.

She couldn't recognize those trees. She couldn't recognize the architecture. There was just nothing familiar about this place at all. Her fear of death from earlier was reawakening quickly, much too quickly with the sudden realization that she had been kidnapped and was being led somewhere she didn't know with a racist psychopath.

_"__Mmeh__, __Bll__, __nlo __chu __mmnk__?"_

_ "__Shlu__ '__p__, __Va__."_

It was an odd thing, realizing just what those things making those noises were, but it took her mind off her sudden anxiety. The cart seemed to have a bar underneath it, between the four wheels, like a third axel. Attached to the two ends, or at least the end that she could just barely see in front of her, was an odd bundle. It was making decidedly human noises, but both of them had gags in their mouths, beneath the burlap sacks shoved over their heads. The one she could see was wearing tattered rags over her body, with dark blue skin that rippled from the muscles underneath her exposed arms.

Such a way of escorting prisoners seemed odd to the half-elf. Not only was she bound, but her head was covered, her feet and hands were tied, and then her legs were tied to her arms, she was suspended from a stick with her stomach to the ground and her arms high above her head, and she even seemed to have a chain attaching her neck to the body of the cart.

Puzzling over these two had at least calmed the woman down. A quick turn of her head assured her that there was, in fact a second one behind her mumbling a conversation to her pair. It was just absurd and even somewhat frightful. The Nord prisoner that was hyperventilating in front of her seemed to be more dangerous, besides the impressive lean muscles of the one in front of her, these two were rather scrawny after all, so what was it these two could do that made them such a threat to the Empire?

_"__Mmce __etthr__, __mmeh__, __Bll__?"_ The Dunmer behind her seemed to ask.

_"__Shlu__ '__p__, __Va__."_ The one in front of her shot back around her gag, slightly louder than before.

The Nords on the cart seemed to be ignoring them, for the most part. The soldier had turned to face the front, chatting quietly with the driver in words that couldn't be heard over the light wind and cracking tires against stone and dirt. The other one, sitting before her, was still looking terrified. His eyes were still wide, and they still seemed to face nothing, despite staring somewhere down towards the half-elf's chest.

"Excuse me," she asked, quietly enough that she hoped the soldier wouldn't hear. When the Nord she addressed didn't respond she leaned in a little, as far as the stock holding her wrists, and thus pinching her shoulders back, would allow from where it was chained to the side of the wagon. "Hey," she whispered again, as forcefully as she could.

The man finally snapped out of it. He seemed to realize where he was all at once, as the girl found his widened eyes on hers after a quick blink. The Nord had a dark gaze, his eyes a green that almost reflected light more than it absorbed. It was also troubled, but the fear was understandable, at least from her perspective.

"I'm Dante, who are you?" She asked, trying to sound as welcoming as possible despite the fear that coursed through her veins.

_"__Mm __Va__,"_ came a mumble from behind her.

_"__Shlu__ '__p__, __Va__,"_ was the reply from across the wagon.

The man, all the while, had managed to swallow down a lump in his throat. For a good while he seemed to question whether he should talk to the half-elf, but after a moment a very timid, and somewhat parched, voice came out, "I'm Arr-Arrick. Arrick... Woodhand."

"Nice to meet you," Dante replied with a faint laugh. Her nervousness was apparent, and any attempt to break the tension seemed to be a good idea. It was either that or stare at the hill they were slowly descending. "Um, I don't suppose you know what they caught me for?"

The Nord caught Dante's gaze again. It seemed to hold distrust for a second, but it was only a flash of an emotion that bordered on anger before disappearing once more. "Why?"

Dante chewed over her words before answering. The truth seemed to be the best way to go, less lies were less work for her. "I just can't seem to remember why I'm here." She admitted.

The face of the young Nord retained its expression of thought. He didn't seem to be remembering so much as he was choosing his words, but he did finally answer with a quiet, "I think the guards caught you stealing chickens."

For Dante, that was like a weight off her shoulders. She breathed out a sigh of relief and seemed to relax back into her seat. "Is that all? I was starting to worry..."

Whatever the young man had been expecting, Dante's reply didn't seem to ease his worries. A brief flash of anger covered his face once more, his eyes narrowing to try to pierce into Dante's head. But the woman had already turned her attention back to the scenery. The cart was slowing down, and off to the side, hidden by further, barren hills, a walled fort was just starting to come into view.

The fort wasn't that large in comparison to many of the Imperial bases in the region, the walls were just a fourth of the height of a Valenwood tree, for that matter. But to the half-elf, it was massive. She'd never been so close to a man-made structure that was so large. The thick grey walls stood from valley to valley, enough room to fit eight of the wagons she was riding front-to-back. Atop the parapets were more Imperial soldiers, so many Nords or Imperials that she was starting not to notice the difference. All of them wore the brown leathers and red clothes of the Empire, but most had taken to wearing pants rather than the guarded kilts of their homeland.

"Where are we?" Dante whispered. The cart dropped down a particularly large chunk of rock in the road, earning a pained _oomph_ and a, _"__Rll__, __pht __hart__," _from the bundled girl behind her, and slowly began to approach the walls and the massive wooden doors that formed the center of the front facade. A shiver ran down her back as the walls loomed up before them, but only half of that was fear from the feeling of being insignificant and outnumbered. Half of it was just that this place was bloody cold.

Fear overtook that feeling of cold as Dante realized just how many soldiers there were here. Over the main gate, more than a half dozen archers stood behind crenellations on cracked and frosted wooden platforms. As the rickety wagon approached, they slid iron arrows from their quivers one by one, cocking them at the ready in long Imperial bows that aimed down at the pack of prisoners, already surrounded by their escort.

The words of her fellow Nord prisoner were starting to be doubted. While the half-elf knew that stealing was a serious crime and that jail time and heavy fines were standard, she didn't think even in this backward land of wherever-she-was that a chicken-thief needed four escorts and half a dozen arrows trained on her at any given time.

The psychopath at the front of the cart seemed pleased with the reception though. There was a smirk, just a light upturn, to his thin lips. With that gracing his face, and the wagon slowing to a stop as the horses grew close to the wooden portals, he stood. The woven sacks were finally pulled from the heads of the other two prisoners. The one next to the Nord in front of her turned out to be another Nord, this one with red hair that just bordered on brown, who squinted against the sudden light like he had a bad headache more than any representation of fear.

On Dante's side was a lizard, an Argonian with a longer, rounded face covered in green scales, with a yellow skull and horns circling the crown of his head. He hissed quietly against the sudden intrusion and shrunk back against his seat when the soldier passed over on his way to the back of the cart.

"Welcome," the Nord called, dropping from the open back of the wagon to the cobbled road beneath, "to Fort Stendarr. This is the final stop, everyone's getting off here."

On the opposite side of the wagon, the old wooden doors creaked open, resulting in a brief huff from one of the horses. The soldier had set to work on the back of the wagon, pulling a heavy chain out the back with a ungodly racket. It shook and rattled against Dante's binds, finally slipping out the back and landing in a heavy pile at the Nord's feet. Dante could finally sit up straight. The Argonian beside her allowed himself a similar freedom. Soon the two across from her were free as well.

Their feet were released in a similar fashion right after, the chains rattling along in a way that made Dante's teeth tingle. Their ankles were still bound together, the chains that had secured them to the wagon had stretched through a hoop in the center, but at least she could stretch out her legs slightly.

But even that small comfort didn't save the crushing weight of her situation. The cart lurched forwards once again, the horses easily navigating the open doors of the fort, leaving the Nord behind to heave up his bundle of chains. After they passed, Dante could see two more soldiers struggle to push the heavy wooden gates closed behind them, leaving the wagon to circle to a stop in the courtyard in the center of the walls and towers that apparently made up Fort Stendarr.

She had never seen this place on a map, nor heard of it from anyone she'd talked to recently. The mix of Nord and Imperial soldiers suggested that this was to the north, somewhere between Skyrim and Cyrodiil, but that didn't make it any easier for the half-elf. Her thoughts on the matter were cut short though, an Imperial in standard uniform and stepped forward to beckon the prisoners out, and Dante found herself dropping to the well-packed earth next to the unshaven boy, Arrick.

"Stand up and form a line," the Imperial ordered somewhat drolly, motioning them into a straight line with Dante at the front. His eyes weren't on them, instead looking at a piece of parchment in one hand that seemed to list something about them Dante couldn't begin to guess. At least it didn't seem to interest him, but he didn't even seem interested to the point of any formalities in the prisoner themselves.

"Six prisoners," he muttered as he read. To Dante's side, where the wagon sat, the driver dropped to the ground and made a sound of affirmation.

_"__Urr __fss__ '__za __prsner__!"_ The Dunmer behind Dante retorted.

"Aye, that's what we were called for. Three elves, two Nords, and an Argonian." The driver stepped off to the side, giving the wagon a decent berth.

_"__Shlu__ '__p__, __Va__,"_ the second replied, her mumbled tone rather grating and annoyed.

The official soldier, Dante guessed him to be at least a Captain in the Empire, stepped away from the prisoners who were languishing on their feet. He instead moved towards the wagon, where some commotion was still being made from the dark elf that had been strung up behind Dante all this time. He stopped in front of the quieter one, the one whose muscles the wood elf had the fortune of glancing over along the trip.

With an inquisitive glance at the figure, the Imperial leaned over her and pulled the sack from her head. The driver recoiled behind him, especially when the gag was pulled from the woman's mouth.

It was a Dunmer woman, just as Dante had surmised, an alien figure with pronounced features, a wide jaw, and milky white eyes. Her hair was a scraggly mess of white fur that stuck to her cheeks, her sharp expression a violent scowl that was directed away from her Imperial captives.

"Shut up, Vas," the woman growled, raising her head enough to turn it towards her bound, yet talkative, partner. That sentence was familiar. It was the same structure and tone she had been hearing from the Dunmer all during the trip. Apparently it was the woman's favorite thing to say. Either that, or she honestly believed that 'Vas' would listen to her eventually.

_"__Jss __ki__' '__m__, __Rll__."_ That was apparently not the case, though.

The subordinate soldier, the driver, was quick to react beside the Dunmer. Within seconds the gag had been pulled back over her mouth and the sack sat loosely over her eyes. That didn't stop her from shooting out another muffled, "Shut up, Vas," though.

"Be careful with these two," the driver hissed fearfully. Everything in his appearance, from the tense way he moved to the frightened look on his face, told Dante of his fear for the bound prisoner. She knew how to read guards from experience, after all. "These are Dunmer witches. This one-" he motioned towards the lean elf Dante had been staring at, "-can bewitch men or drive 'em mad with a single word or glance."

The Imperial Captain looked suspicious. Even her fellow prisoners looked antsy. The woman interested Dante, she seemed so powerful and refined, but she had to admit to a little fear at hearing what she could do without hearing how. "And the other one?"

"She can steal your soul right out of your body," was the reply, recited from the driver like a ghost story, or a scary children's tale. He didn't even wait for the other man to respond, shooting down the Captain's skeptical look with, "Don't laugh, I saw it happen with my own two eyes. Reached right into Tibius Fibularis' chest and ripped the life out of him."

"Hmm," the Captain muttered in reply. That he was considering so strongly was frightening in itself to Dante. He had taken to stroking the grizzled hair on his cheek, glancing randomly at the two Dunmer, then further to one of the towers. "So, this is why they had us set up the room. Worry not, the Empire prepares for everything."

The Captain turned away from the cart and Dunmer still attached to it, raising one stocky arm in the direction of the four that still stood in a row, tense and worried to the point of silence. Dante, Arrick, the Argonian, and the ginger shrunk down as the man's voice echoed powerfully through the quiet fort, "Send the rest of the prisoners into the dungeons! Have all the men prepare to move the witches into confinement!"

Rough hands suddenly gripped the wooden stock on the prisoners' arms. A clatter of chains followed as they were hoisted along towards one of the towers built into the valley's hills. Dante bit down the wave of nausea as she realized that this was it, she was going to end up in some sick bastard's torture chamber and there was nothing she could do about it.

"Wait!" She shouted, fighting against the arms that shoved her onward still. Struggling against the bonds as much as she can, Dante gave a pleading look to the man in charge that had turned back to his two more important prisoners. "I don't belong here! You have to believe me, this is a mistake!"

The door was getting closer and closer, her fighting getting more and more desperate with each step towards the wooden surface and the soldiers waiting around it. It was the last thing she remembered before a sudden field of white overtook her vision, bursts of pure light appearing everywhere.

Then, merciful darkness.


End file.
